


Something Blue

by KittyViolet



Category: New Mutants (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Embarrassment, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Roommates, Shopping Malls, Tail Sex, Technology, Underwear, Water, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Relationships: Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin
Kudos: 9





	Something Blue

“What’s this?” Kitty says, leaning forward. Her Star of David necklace dangles in front of her, inches ahead of her scoop-neck top. 

“From Salem Center Mall. I thought you’d like it.” Illyana offers a package the size of her forearm, wrapped in blue tissue paper. It’s soft but with an unyielding rubbery core. Late afternoon sun hits Illyana’s bare shoulder, taut and muscular as always under her sleeveless black top. 

Kitty gets up from her side of the bed, the package in one hand. Moving an elbow as she resettles herself beside Illyana, Kitty places her Sprite on a nightstand corner; the soda can falls and spills a bit on her bare knee. “It’s cold,” she says, taking the object out of its shiny wrapper.

“I think it’s hot,” Illyana says. 

“Hot when I get wet?” Kitty asks, cleaning up the spill with a stray fuzzy sock.

“I meant the package,” Illyana says, “but that too.” Because Illyana has nothing else to do with her hands, she picks up her wooden practice sword and leans forward in one of the standard saber-fighting stances. She’s been taking formal fencing lessons from Kurt.

The unwrapped package holds: a bra, but an odd one, with shiny pockets inside both cups. Kitty looks at the bra, looks down at her own decolletage—there’s not much of it yet—and then, blushing, at Illyana’s ampler curves.

“You think I’m hot. You’re weird,” Kitty teases her roommate. Illyana drops her practice sword. 

Kitty undoes the plastic at the back of the gift, slips off her sleeveless top, and lets Illyana fasten the weird new bra around her back. There are baby-blue-on-white pinstripes on both cups, but they droop, their shiny extra fabric showing what Kitty doesn’t have.

“That’s not how to wear it,” Illyana explains hopefully. “I got it for you just because you were talking about how you wanted more up there, and you didn’t believe me when I told you I was happy to cuddle with you just—just like you are, that we didn’t have to wait for anything, that you were fine—and I still think that, but you don’t, so this is a bra to give you—to add more boob.”

“It does not appear to perform as advertised,” Kitty objects, poking the empty cups.

“It’s not performing yet. It’s a water bra,” Illyana announces. “You fill those sealable pockets with water, and you get the impression of a smooth boob.”

“Smooth boob,” Kitty repeats. “Ooo, cool.Woo. You too.” She takes up the unfilled pockets in both palms. “Goo?”

“Echolalia,” Illyana says. “Echolalia. Echolalia!”

“I taught you that word,” Kitty objects, reaching out to tickle Illyana between her arm and her rib cage.

“Sue me.”

“Sue who? Sue you?”

“Should we go get the water? Where?” Illyana’s apparently serious about wanting to see Kitty enjoy her magnified bustline.

Kitty gestures towards the sink in the bathroom they share with the New Mutants. “Loo?” 

Illyana runs her finger down Kitty’s chest from her collarbone, past the bra strap, to the little stripes on the not-yet-filled pockets. “Blue!”

Twenty minutes and three tickle fights later the water bra contains water, it’s filled out in blue, and Kitty is smiling back as Illyana smiles to see her curves filled out at last, not the way they’ll be in a couple of years but the way they’ll be with the water bra. She’s awkward and graceful at once, and Illyana knows it. (Illyana is awkward and graceful and dangerous. And has more muscles and more hips and curves than Kitty maybe ever will.)

The next week reveals a problem, though: Kitty wants to wear the water bra for several hours at a time, several days in a row, and the cups, so firm, so shaped, when she first puts it on, gradually lose their shape and get baggy as the water slowly rearranges itself in the cup. They’re not supposed to be worn for more than one afternoon out of every week or so. 

The answer appears to be: go to Salem Center Mall and buy more water bras, so Kitty can wear them in rotation. On Wednesday afternoon Illyana calls Under Where, the specialty lingerie store that just moved into the mall. No water bras left.

“Mail order?” Illyana asks. “If you like it so much.”

“I don’t want males giving me orders,” Kitty starts to say, but Illyana interrupts her: “Pun fail. Tickle penalty!” and starts tickling Kitty intensely, so that Kitty’s curly brown hair falls back along her shoulders, her chin in the air. 

“No, seriously—hee!—I have a better idea.”

Thursday morning Kitty wakes up and rolls over in Illyana’s bed—she sleeps there about four nights a week now, and Ilya nips her ear to get her awake: usually she pulls the soft coverlet back over her head, right up to the hairline, while Illyana faces the sun with her practice sword. Today, though, Kitty has something to do after breakfast.

Once she’s up, Kitty leans over to work on a new device, one of her personal tech projects: thin black tubes that run out of a backpack, the silver backpack with the handmade Elfquest patch, one she takes almost everywhere on school days, around her ribs. The thin tubes, with their micro-pumps attached, run right into her new water bra, and then out of it into the backpack again.

Illyana climbs back into their bedroom, having performed her sword exercises on the X-Mansion’s roof. “You’re a pretty great backpack,” Kitty thinks she hears Illyana say, and then it resolves: “You’ve got a pretty great backpack.” Also “what are you doing to your backpack?”

“Making the most of your awesome present,” Kitty answers. “And of my extra credit in hydraulic and mechanical engineering. See? The curves I want stay constant all day.”

And they do: through morning physics tutorial with Hank, through coding (independent study), through making sandwiches with Illyana and Doug and Dani, through a history project (Reconstruction), and all the way to Bobby’s Ice Cream (no relation to Bobby Drake), in Salem Center Mall, where Kitty and Illyana share a bright green mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

They’re eating the same dish with two spoons and pretty much daring the baseline human teens of Salem Center to notice how much they’re a couple. The baseline human teens don’t seem to care. Illyana’s got a denim dress with broad shoulder straps and black tights that stop at her thighs: a good thing as the ice cream gives her, not brain freeze, but something like tail freeze, because it’s one of those days when her tail sometimes manifests. Kitty notices.

Illyana notices—her eyes go right there, and then her eyebrows go up—and then Kitty notices, too, how well the high tech water bra has—

“It’s holding up well,” Magik says. “And you’ve had a... full day.”

Kitty tries to arch one eyebrow, like Spock on TV, and fails utterly. They’re basically playing footsie, except it’s tailsie—Kitty’s sneakers and Illyana’s tail. 

Along with the silver backpack, over the water bra, Kitty’s wearing a forest green dress with pale green stripes whose curves fit tight around what she’s given herself. “Technology,” she says. “High tech boobage.” They really do boost her confidence just a little. The green of the dress almost matches the brighter green of the ice cream. She angles her spoon to pretend to feed Illyana. A Norman Rockwell scene, but gay, she thinks. Would Norman Rockwell mind?

Bleep blorps and digital melodies spill into Bobby’s Ice Cream from the Center Arcade. Kitty picks out the sounds of Donkey Kong. She can’t play arcade games any more without thinking about Arcade, and she resents him for it.

“Boobnology,” Illyana says, and then a fire extinguisher zips past her head. Illyana’s combat reflexes, honed by her years in Limbo, mean she knows it’s coming before it gets there; she ducks left. The heavy cylinder slams into the glass partition over the ice cream tubs. Glass shatters. A metal chair follows, flying right at Kitty, who phases; the chair ends up stuck between Strawberry Cheesecake Ice Cream and Chocolate Froyo Crisp.

Kitty’s expecting a giant robot, or maybe Hellfire Club goons, or the Massachusetts Academy kids on a field trip gone wrong. Instead—as the chair-thrower, and the extinguisher-thrower, comes into view—it’s a mall cop with improbably big muscles: he’s super-strong, distraught, and not used to it. The cop, flailing, brandishes a truncheon; Illyana parries him easily with a broom handle and mock-fences him into a corner, telling him all the while to stop and breathe.

How did he get that way? Oh. Here comes that kid Eoin, who Kitty knows because they both sat in on a college class in microtech this summer, but she hasn’t seen him since—he’s kind of creepy, less nice guy than Nice Guy (T M), and never more so than now, when he’s advancing from the arcade in his Oxford shirt and pressed jeans, with a roll of quarters in one hand and an oversized gun-shaped object in another. 

“It works!” he proclaims, pushing his floppy, shiny hair back from his scalp. “I made this cop ultra strong! Now I’ll make you girls be on fire, and Victoria will see my genius and she will have to date me!”

“No, she won’t,” Kitty says, and runs right at Eoin. “I don’t know who Victoria is, but she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do, least of all date you.” Then she phases all the way through him. The gun-shaped object shorts out and showers the floppy-haired teen inventor with useless sparks. The surprised-looking mall cop, still muscled-up and semi-Hulked out, but calm enough to do his job, moves in quietly, gently, to arrest Eoin.

“For him, it was the worst day of his young life,” Illyana intones. “But for the X-Men, it was Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday,” Kitty responds, then settles in to finish her ice cream—except that there’s something wet in her lap, and something even wetter down her dress front. The water bra can no longer hold water. Nor can her dress, whose shades of green are considerably darker. Nobody’s looking—probably—except Illyana, but Illyana can’t stop looking: two water stains have spread all the way down her dress.

Phasing through the gives-people-powers gun, Kitty disrupted the tech linking backpack to bra and keeping the water circulating. Instead, the tubes just… get her wet.

Illyana lifts her spoon and gazes, almost awed, at Kitty through her bangs. 

“I…. I…. omigod you like it,” Kitty objects, blushing, while her dress gets even wetter, though she’s also smiling at Illyana, mouth a bit open. The vertical stripes on the dress now show exactly where she’s recently grown, and where she hasn’t, yet. They make the shape of two parentheses—right now, two parentheses soaked in water. Given the greenness of the dress: seawater. The still-concealed tubes from her backpack are pumping the last of the water down the front of her dress, pulsing and then dribbling, then a slow leak.

Kitty sees—probably no one else sees?—Illyana’s tail, curled around one of her legs, outside her leggings, beside her ankle, slapping the tile floor appreciately. There’s something cute, even hot, about being slightly ashamed of herself, being wet in public, around her roommate. Her best friend. Her girlfriend. Her girlfriend with a very hot tail. It’s like she’s cleaning Kitty up with her eyes, except it’s not clean at all. 

Kitty feeds her girlfriend another spoonful of ice cream. “Is there, like, a spell that will dry me off?” Kitty asks, leaning even farther forward.

“There is,” Illyana says, and just keeps looking.


End file.
